Only the Hands of Time
by Another Rambling Fangirl
Summary: Time heals all wounds, or so Sharon Raydor's been told. When unexpected changes occur, Sharon feels like she's losing control. What will happen as her life shifts before her?
1. Chapter 1

_February 2002_

With a frustrated huff, Sharon removed her glasses and placed them none too gently on the stack of paperwork before her. The mountain of forms before her was daunting. It wasn't that she was unaccustomed to the minutiae her position entailed, but some days it was just more difficult to stomach than others. Today was one of those days.

She could feel the beginnings of a headache accumulating behind her eyes. She rubbed them with the heels of her hands, trying to stave off the inevitable. There was too much to do to succumb to a blinding headache. Too many reports to review, investigations to oversee, court documents to verify. There was just too much of everything.

Sharon leaned back in her chair, peering myopically out into her squad room. Without the assistance of her corrective lenses everything was blurred beyond recognition. However, that didn't mean she didn't know which vaguely humanoid blobs were members of her division and which were not. Like the one stopped at Lieutenant Pratt's desk. That person was not one of her detectives. That person was a stranger. And was now headed toward her office.

Quickly replacing her glasses, she watched the now crisply clear young man in a suit advancing on her. He didn't look familiar, which meant he was not an Internal Affairs officer. He didn't look like one of the angry young officers who occasionally stormed into her office armed with threats and foul language. He looked out of place. And that scared her more than she cared to admit.

Her eyes followed him as he made his way past occupied desks, noting how her detectives watched him progress. The looks of confusion, concern, and just plain curiosity were not lost on Sharon. It was always noteworthy when someone advanced on the boss's office. She steeled herself for whatever fresh hell was about to be unleashed, sitting up a bit straighter in her chair and calmly shuffling the papers on her desk.

"Sharon Raydor?" the young man asked as he pushed the door to her office open. He stood, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for an answer.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes narrowing warily.

The young man stepped to the edge of her desk, withdrawing a manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket and placing it gently on top of a stack of papers. "You've been served." He turned without looking at her face and practically ran from the room. Sharon didn't notice. Her eyes were on the envelope.

Envelopes only meant one thing when it came to process servers. Envelopes meant law suits. Shit.

For a moment she continued to just stare at the envelope. She could feel the eyes of everyone in her division on her. She wished she'd closed the blinds earlier. Then she wouldn't have to acknowledge the looks her detectives were currently throwing her way. Distractedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Sharon finally reached for the envelope.

She slowly pulled out the bundle of papers, taking no pleasure in the gentle sound of paper scraping against paper. What could this possibly be about? Who could possibly be suing her?

When her eyes lit upon the top of the first page, one word stuck out. 'DIVORCE.' This was shaping up to be the worst day she'd had in a long, long time.

* * *

Lieutenant Richard Pratt was the oldest member of Force Investigation Division, the man with the most experience, the one other detectives seemed to look upon as a grandfatherly figure. He'd never understood why. He wasn't particularly sweet or even pleasant. But he was very good at his job. And his job was to investigate.

The moment the young man in the suit entered the squad room Richard felt nothing good could possibly come from his appearance. There was something about the young man's slightly nervous demeanor and ill-fitting suit that raised his hackles. Something was afoot, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. "Hey, you!" he called, gesturing for the young man to approach his desk. He waited impatiently as the guy made his way through the desks. "You looking for someone? Filing a complaint?"

"I'm looking for Sharon Raydor," the young man said, offering no further explanation. He eyed the elderly detective as if trying to size him up. Richard merely raised an eyebrow.

"Why?" It was a simple question, but one loaded with just the barest hint of a threat. Richard stared at the young man, his eyes narrowing. He had a soft spot for Sharon, always had and probably always would. She was his protégé and if he could keep something bad from happening to her, he would do anything in his power to do it. Even if it meant staring down scrawny twenty-somethings in the middle of the squad room.

"I have a delivery for her." The Boy's voice shook slightly, a fact that gave Richard immense pleasure. "It's from her husband."

"Oh. She's over there," he said, gesturing toward Sharon's office. If this nervous messenger was from the illustrious Mitchell Kohl, then there was no real threat, was there? Sharon probably wouldn't think so. "Knock first."

He and all the others present watched in silence as the young man walked toward the office. And they all cringed when he neglected to knock on Captain Raydor's closed door. "Damn it, I told him to knock," Richard mumbled, his eyes still on the Boy.

Every eye was on Sharon. Richard knew this, but he did nothing to correct the situation. He was guilty himself. Plus, he reasoned, he couldn't make them do anything at the moment anyway. FID was curious about the personal goings-on of its leader. He couldn't undo that by yelling at everybody, could he?

But when the young man bolted, he knew that something was up. Something bad. Damn it. He should have gone with his first impulse. But the words 'from her husband' had thrown him off the trail. He continued to watch Sharon through the glass walls of her office. He watched as she eyed the papers, as she slowly withdrew them from the envelope, as her face fell. Shit, shit, shit.

"Okay! Everybody back to work," he said, standing up and waving his arms back and forth. "We have cases, people. Ramirez! Allen! What are you still doing here? Didn't you just get a call out? Use your heads, people. There's work to do."

He stared out at the people around him, daring them to defy a direct order from the second in command. Ramirez and Allen were already half out the door, and most of the others had the good sense to at least make themselves look busy. Richard gave a satisfied grunt before making his way calmly over to the desk of Detective Katie Janiszewski.

"Pratt, I'm not going in there. You can't make me go in there," Janiszewski said without preamble.

"I wasn't going to ask you to."

"You were going to order me, weren't you?"

Richard smiled down at the young detective. She was a sharp one, Janiszewski. "Right."

"Why am I the one who has to go in there? You know her better." She stared defiantly up at him. She had a legitimate point, and she knew it.

"But I think you'll have better luck getting a truthful answer out of her."

Janiszewski laughed, a sharp sound that cut through the relative silence of the squad room. "This is Sharon Raydor we're talking about, right? If she doesn't want to talk about it, she's not going to. To anybody."

Richard sighed. Janiszewski was right. No one could force Sharon Raydor to talk about something if she didn't want to. No one would get an admission that anything was wrong either. Not unless Sharon was the one to initiate the discussion. Damn it all.

All discussion halted with the gentle 'whoosh' of closing vertical blinds. All eyes turned toward Captain Raydor's office. The slats swayed slightly, giving quick glimpses into the office. Sharon was pacing, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Richard's eyes widened. She only did that when something really, really, _really_ bad happened.

* * *

The gentle clacking of the still swaying blinds reminded Sharon that now was not the time to collapse. Now was not the time to let her emotions get the better of her. She had work to do. She had responsibilities. She paced her office, wanting desperately for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Why had Mitchell done this? Blind-sided her, and at work no less. Was he trying to humiliate her? If that was his goal he'd certainly succeeded.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to throw things. She wanted to disappear. A lump formed in her throat, choking her. She couldn't breathe. She could feel the breath trapped in her lungs, trying desperately to escape. She was suffocating on her own stupid feelings.

Undoing the two top buttons of her blouse, Sharon felt a bit more control over the situation. At least she could breathe. She stopped pacing. Pacing accomplished nothing. And she had much too much to do today to let anything derail her. Even if that thing was the complete destruction of her private life. She had to focus. If she just focused now, everything would be fine.

Taking a seat behind her desk, she slowly pulled herself closer to the desk. She forced herself to take a deep breath. If she relaxed now she could fall apart later. Alone in the comfortable confines of her own home. Now was not the time and this certainly was not the place. No. With a slight shake of the head, Sharon straightened her shoulders and reached for a pen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I would like to thank everyone who took the time to write a review. Your feedback was much appreciated! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**

* * *

Richard peered at Sharon's office. The blinds were still drawn and no noise was coming from inside. He glanced at his watch. Three o'clock on the dot. It had been nearly four hours since the young man in the suit had disappeared. Four hours and Sharon hadn't come out of her office. He was beginning to worry. It wasn't like her to go this long without wandering into the squad room for updates on cases or to clarify reports. It wasn't like her to be so incredibly quiet. It was because of this isolation that Richard made a decision: he was going to get her to admit what was wrong, even if it killed him. He had the distinct feeling that it just might.

Casting a quick glance around the squad room, he scrubbed a hand across his face and stood up. As he started what he considered to be his death march he could see Janiszewski eye him before promptly returning back to her work. Apparently she was of the opinion he would force her to come along. If he weren't worried about the Captain he probably would have. But he was going into this situation blind. He didn't want to embarrass Sharon in front a subordinate. Then she really would kill him. He walked without a word.

He paused outside the door, taking a deep breath to fortify himself. He was going to need steady nerves for what he was about to do: he was going to ask Sharon Raydor about her _feelings_. Before he could lose his nerve and slink off to a vending machine, he pushed his way into the Captain's office with a gentle knock.

Sharon was seated behind her desk, her eyes scanning a case report. Her chin rested on her left hand while she absent-mindedly tapped her pen against the desk with her other. Her lips were pursed and her forehead crinkled in a way Richard knew meant extreme frustration with whoever had completed the report. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence. He cleared his throat softly to get her attention.

"Oh!" Sharon's eyes widened to an almost comic proportion as she jumped in surprise. Her cheeks flushed a pale pink. This lapse in demeanor lasted only a second, her usual composure returning as she smoothed the front of her blouse. "What can I help you with, Richie?"

Normally, if someone called him Richie, Richard would have to suppress the urge to punch that individual in the face. But Sharon was one of two people on the face of the planet allowed to call him that, the only other being his wife Stella. If they hadn't been partners when Sharon first made detective, he was sure she wouldn't have been allowed that privilege either. But they were close. At least he liked to think they were. What he was about to do would either prove or disprove that theory very quickly.

"Well," he hedged, trying to think of a good way to broach the subject of what the hell was going on with her. There was no good way. There was no subtle way to ask what was wrong. There was just no way to do this that would be comfortable for either of them. He kept his mouth shut.

"Well, what?" She smiled at him, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She watched his face with laser-like focus. He couldn't help but squirm under such intense scrutiny. "Did you have something to say, or are you just going to waste my time? I have things to do before I can go—"

"Are you alright?" he finally blurted, immediately feeling sheepish. He fought the urge to stare at his feet.

Sharon was silent for a long moment. Her face was unreadable, though her gaze was sharp. It was almost as if she were deciding whether or not he could be trusted. Richard chafed at the thought that she would have to take more than a split second to see that his intentions were pure. He was worried about her, damn it. He was about to voice his frustrations when Sharon finally stated, "I'm fine."

Richard threw up his hands in frustration. "Someone who's fine doesn't take five minutes to say it, Sharon."

Sharon's eyes narrowed slightly. "It wasn't five minutes."

"Sure as hell felt like five minutes with you staring at me like that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Start a fight with me because you're angry with your husband."

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Richard wished he could take them back. He was frustrated, a not uncommon occurrence when dealing with this particular woman despite his affection for her, and he had said exactly the wrong thing.

Sharon visibly tensed, a flicker of hurt passing over her face before she shuttered herself to him. "What?" Her crisp enunciation of the word made him flinch.

"Well…"

"I'm waiting, Lieutenant." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared him straight in the eye, her green eyes boring a whole right through his skull. If looks could kill, Richard was fairly certain he would have been headed for the morgue shortly. "I can order you to answer me, Richie."

He stared at Sharon, trying to find some way this situation might not make him wish for his imminent death. He took a deep breath. It was now or never. If he didn't say it now, he knew he would slink off somewhere to hide until he knew Sharon went home. He would just have to suck it up and take one for the team. "The messenger said he had something from your husband, and then you just—"

Sharon cut him off by raising a hand. "You spoke to him?"

"Yeah. I didn't recognize him, and he said he was looking for you. I didn't want some kid coming in here threatening you, so I asked why he was here."

"And he said?"

"He had something for you from your husband." Richard was confused, a fact he was sure was evident to Sharon. Or it would have been if she were bothering to look at him. Her gaze had dropped to the surface of her desk. "So…I sent him in here."

For a terribly awkward moment Richard stood in complete silence, unsure of what the best course of action would be. The obvious choice would be to leave. But the choice he knew he would have to make was to stay. He needed to be sure she was alright. Clearly she wasn't. However, one simply didn't rush Sharon Raydor. Not when it came to talking about emotionally fraught topics.

"I have work to do," Sharon said suddenly, her eyes focused completely on her desk. She shuffled papers, straightening already neat stacks of forms. Richard couldn't help but note a slight tremble in her hands. "If you would excuse me."

"But Sharon—"

"No." She stopped what she was doing, but still refused to look at him. Her voice had a hard edge to it. It was almost brittle. This startled Richard. "Go back to your desk, Lieutenant."

That was the second time she'd addressed him by rank in the course of their conversation. She meant business. If she had to tell him again, he would be insubordinate. It wouldn't matter to her that he had more experience than she did, that she had once looked to him as a mentor. She didn't tolerate insubordination. Ever. "Fine. I was just concerned."

He was almost to the door when he heard it. She said it softly, as if she wasn't certain she was saying the words aloud. "I'm sorry."

"I know." And with that he exited the office, gently pulling the door closed behind him. He silently returned to his desk, his body language clearly telegraphing his desire to be left alone. Janiszewski merely raised an eyebrow at him before once again turning back to her own work.

He may not have any real answers, but Lieutenant Richard Pratt knew one thing for certain: Mitchell Kohl was completely responsible for whatever was wrong with the Captain, and for this he would have to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

She found the note when she went upstairs to exchange her well-tailored suit for a t-shirt and sweats. Mitchell had left it on the nightstand, a single sheet of folded paper leaning against their framed wedding photo. She stared at it for a moment, not feeling particularly anxious to find out what it said. Seconds ticked by until finally her curiosity kicked in and got the better of her. If this was some sort of explanation maybe it would be enlightening. Maybe. She didn't think it likely.

Unfolding it carefully, Sharon took a seat on the edge of the bed. It was a short note, a sparse paragraph in Mitchell's neat script. She read it once, twice, three times before she really began to understand what he had written. _I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore. All I know is that I can't find that out with you._ She stared at these two lines. What was that even supposed to mean? She shook her head, trying to piece together what this could even begin to mean. She couldn't.

Sharon grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle on her nightstand, her abrupt motion upsetting the wedding photo. As it fell, it cracked sharply against the corner of the table. She paused to stare at the spider web of cracks that now obscured the smiling faces of a happy young couple. Tears began to blur the edges of her vision. She blinked them back. She needed to be calm for this phone call. She refused to give him the satisfaction of making her cry. She absolutely _refused_.

Taking another deep breath, she dialed the number he'd left at the bottom of the note. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and her stomach churned with each ring. Each ring made her more restless and angry. Unable to remain seated, Sharon began to pace her bedroom floor. She took no notice of the trail her steps left in the soft carpet. All her energy was focused on containing her emotions.

It took eleven rings for Mitchell to answer. "Hello?" he said, sounding just the slightest bit out of breath.

"Mitchell—"

"Sharon, now's not a good time. I'll call you later, okay?"

Anger rose in Sharon like a tidal wave, an angry flush radiating up her neck and across her chest. "No, that's not okay," she seethed. "I just wanted to know what the hell you expect me to tell our children when you don't come home."

"That we're getting a divorce. No one's fault, we grew apart, Dad still loves them. All that stuff."

Mitchell sounded completely disinterested in this conversation, as if he had much better things to be doing. This only made Sharon angrier. She forced herself to take yet another deep breath, not yet willing to completely unleash her anger. "I think they should hear it from you."

"Well, I'm not there, am I?"

She stopped in her tracks. So that's how he wanted to play it. He wanted her to be the one to explain, the one to tell her children that their father wasn't abandoning them. How was she supposed to do that without sounding completely ridiculous? More importantly, how was she supposed to tell them without the blame landing on her? "That wasn't my idea. None of this was my idea," she said icily.

She was met with silence. And that's when she heard it: a woman's voice. A familiar woman's voice. "Mitchell, I thought you said you'd get rid of whoever it was quickly," Erica Doherty, an associate from Mitchell's law firm, whined. Sharon could hear Mitchell cover the receiver with his hand and mutter something she couldn't quite decipher to the younger woman.

"Why is Erica with you?" she asked, her voice lowering to a growl.

"Sharon, I have to –"

"Why is Erica with you, Mitchell?"

"Now isn't the time to discu—"

"Now seems like the perfect time to discuss it."

"I don't owe you an explanation."

"I think you just gave all the explanation I need. You can't 'find' yourself with me, but you can with her."

"Sharon, I'm—"

"How long?" She resumed her pacing, hoping the nervous activity would help her keep ahold of her emotions. Tears welled in her eyes. She brushed them away with her free hand. She would hold it together. She had to.

"You don't really want to know that, do you?"

Sharon laughed mirthlessly. "That long, huh?"

"Sharon, I have to go." He sounded resigned.

Sharon's breath caught in her chest. She could feel pressure building in her head. She felt like she would explode. How dare he sound tired? He didn't have the right to sound anything but guilty. "I understand. You have a 28-year-old to fuck. But one thing before you go."

"Don't be like that."

"I'll be any way I like, thank you."

"What did you want to say, Sharon?" He was beginning to sound frustrated, as if she were the one who'd done something wrong. She felt she'd earned the right to be petty.

"You will explain this to your children. _You_," she said, her voice cracking. She silently cursed herself and her stupid emotions. "Tomorrow. I don't care how you do it, but you're going to do it. You really don't want me to be the one to tell them."

Without waiting for a response, she hung up. She hoped it pissed him off.

For a moment she just stared at the phone in her hand, growing angrier and angrier with each passing second. She wanted to hit something, to make it feel as bad as she did. She wanted to scream and cry and rail against the world. This was not how her life was supposed to work out. Mitchell was supposed to love her, to respect her. It was apparent he did neither. Had he ever?

In that moment of blinding anger, Sharon whipped the phone from her hand as hard as she could. It hit the door of his now empty closet with a bang before clattering to the floor. It seemed unharmed. Already feeling like a pathetic failure, her inability to damage the phone or the closet door broke what tenuous control she had managed to keep over her emotions. Anger mingled with hurt and embarrassment slammed into her like a ton of bricks, leaving her breathless and queasy. She plunked herself back on the edge of her bed and, head in hands, began to cry.

Soft sniffling soon gave way to sobs as negative thoughts and insecurities long buried fought their way to the forefront of her thoughts. _You thought he loved you. Why would anybody love you? You're not remotely loveable. You're not worthy of love, and that's why he moved on to someone else. Because you weren't good enough. __You __weren't enough._ She felt like a complete idiot.

Caught up in her own stupid thoughts, she didn't hear the approaching footsteps of her oldest child. Samantha was by no means a stealthy individual. Her natural clumsiness made that impossible. But Sharon didn't hear the soft sound of muttered curses that always accompanied the 15-year-old's arrival anywhere. She was caught off-guard when Sam quickly opened the door, teasing her as she entered the room. "Mom, we're starving out here. Are you gonna start dinner anytime soon or are we — oh!"

Sharon turned away from the door, desperately trying to compose herself and wipe away her tears. She was not particularly successful in either endeavor. The only thing she managed to do was add more smudges to the lenses of her glasses. "Just give me five minutes please," she sniffled. She could feel her daughter's eyes on her back, and it unnerved her. But she would not turn around.

"What happened?" Samantha asked from the doorway, her voice small. "Did somebody die?"

That question shocked Sharon, prompting her to face her daughter. Her own embarrassment was momentarily forgotten when she saw the worried look on Samantha's face. That expression needed to be changed immediately. She rose from her seat on the bed, tears still leaking from the corners of her eyes. She walked to her daughter, and placing her hands on the girl's slight shoulders said, "No, everyone's fine." She lifted one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind Samantha's ear. "I just had a bad day. I'll be fine."

Samantha eyed her mother suspiciously. "Promise?"

"I promise." Saying the words made her feel sick to her stomach. Guilt. She felt guilty because she knew that everything was not fine and that things were changing. But she also knew there was no way she was going to turn one of her children into her confidant. That wouldn't be fair to anyone. "Now, I just need to change, alright?"

"Okay." Before she left, Samantha threw her arms around her mother and pulled her into a tight hug. It caught Sharon off-guard, but she did her best to return the hug. After a moment her daughter pulled away. "I'm holding you to five minutes. I'm hungry."

Sharon couldn't help but laugh. "I'll be quick."

Her daughter grinned widely before she left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Left alone in her silent bedroom, Sharon closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She needed to settle down, change her clothes, and wash her face. Her natural tendency toward pragmatism was starting to override all other concerns. She took that as a good sign. At least she'd be able to make it through dinner.

* * *

Sharon may have been standing at the kitchen sink, elbow deep in soapy water, but her thoughts were not on the task before her. Instead her thoughts were on what exactly her husband was doing with Erica Doherty. As hard as she tried not to think about the fact that her husband of seventeen years was leaving her for a woman slightly more than twenty years her junior, it was all she could think about. Her life had somehow turned into a terrible TV movie cliché.

But what made the whole thing even worse, she thought as she pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose with the back of her hand, was the fact that she hadn't suspected anything. She was paid to be observant, to piece together evidence. Her entire job relied on her ability to investigate things. Why hadn't she seen what was happening?

Looking up from the sink, Sharon caught a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window. The ragged collar of her faded LAPD t-shirt drooped, long ago stretched beyond the point of elasticity by small children. She wore no make-up and her hair was pulled back into a messy attempt at a ponytail. She examined her reflection with extreme scrutiny, taking in the crinkled skin at the corners of her eyes. This was the only concession to age she could find. While she didn't look or feel old, she knew that she certainly didn't look 28 anymore. In just a few months, she would be 50. Was that why this was happening now?

She was brought sharply back to reality when she felt her son attach himself to her side, his face squished up against her tummy. "Well, hello there, Jake," she said, looking down at the top of her 8-year-old's head. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Jacob didn't look up, instead choosing to mumble incoherently into her t-shirt. It was a bad habit Sharon had tried repeatedly to break him of.

"Jacob Ryan Kohl, how many times am I going to have to ask you not to do that? I can't understand what you're saying." She rinsed her final dish and set in the dish drainer.

"I said that I wish you weren't sad today," he said, turning his head to look into her face.

"What makes you think I'm sad?"

"You look sad. Plus you were really quiet at dinner, and you didn't yell at Sam when she said that bad word."

Sharon hummed her acknowledgment as she pulled the stopper from the sink. She watched the water slowly begin to drain, forming a whirlpool. She quickly rinsed the soap suds from her hands and dried them with a dish towel. Despite her activity, Jacob continued to cling to her side. She took extra care not to hit him in the head with her elbow.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you sad?"

She tensed, caught off-guard by the question. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that particular question. "I had a bad day, Buddy," she murmured, absent-mindedly hugging Jacob closer to her.

"What made it bad?"

"Someone did something that hurt my feelings." It was a gross oversimplification of the situation, as well as an evasive answer, but it was also all she was willing to say on the matter. Her feelings _were_ hurt. She was angry and sad and disappointed. But above all else, she was humiliated. That was too much to explain to a third grader.

"Well, they're stupid if they hurt your feelings," Jacob stated matter-of-factly. He looked so serious, with his solemn face and vehement nod of the head.

This complete conviction struck Sharon as funny, and before she knew what was happening, she'd dissolved into a fit of giggles. Her son's complete befuddlement at her reaction only made her laugh harder. She knew intellectually that her laughter was not proportional to the situation. She struggled to regain control of herself, to force herself to stop laughing. Her eyes were starting to water, and she knew she would start to cry again if she couldn't stop. It took several moments. "Okay," she finally managed, a slight tremor still in her voice, "please don't say stupid."

"But you let Samantha—"

"Jake." She wiped at her still watering eyes, but her tone was firm.

"Fine."

"Thank you. Now," she said, looking over her shoulder to see the clock hanging above the stove, "it's 7:30. Bath, brush your teeth, and then bed, okay?"

Jacob quietly detached himself from his mother's side, and left the kitchen without another word. It may have been posed as a question, but the tone she'd employed said otherwise. Once again, Sharon found herself left alone with her thoughts. And that was not a happy place to be.

She needed a drink.

Pulling a glass from the cabinet and a bottle of very tart white wine from the wine cooler in the kitchen island, Sharon poured herself three-quarters of a glass. She sipped it slowly as she checked all the doors and windows on the first floor. Certain that everything was properly secured, she made her way back upstairs to her bedroom. She would finish her glass of wine, plot Mitchell's demise in vivid detail, and cry. It seemed as good a way to spend the evening as any other.

Walking back into her bedroom, she noticed the phone and the wedding picture with the cracked glass still lay where they'd fallen before dinner. Her gaze lingered on the phone before she stooped to pick it up. She gripped it tightly for a moment before placing it back in its cradle. Setting her wine on the nightstand, she turned her attention to the wedding photo.

"Damn it," she muttered. She read the engraving at the bottom of the frame, _Mitchell & Sharon, June 15, 1984_. Almost eighteen years. They'd been married almost eighteen years, and it was over. Just like that.

She found it interesting that the biggest cracks in the glass obscured Mitchell's face. It was oddly fitting. What made it difficult to look at the photograph, however, was the fact that she looked so happy. She stared at her younger self, the wide smile and the love-struck look written across her face. It was painful to think that feeling had abandoned her.

"Get ahold of yourself," she chastised suddenly, carrying the photo to Mitchell's empty dresser and closing it in the top drawer. "Just stop it. Stop thinking about it. Just stop." Tears were beginning to well in her eyes again. Maybe if she just stopped fighting the urge to cry she'd be able to move past this stage. She paced nervously, brushing aside tears as she weighed her options: cry now by herself or risk having some sort of emotional breakdown in front of her squad tomorrow. She chose the former.

After making sure her bedroom door was securely closed, Sharon downed the last of the wine from her glass before removing her glasses and settling into bed. It was just after 8 o' clock, still early. She didn't care. Jacob was in bed, already half asleep; Samantha was in her bedroom working on her homework; and she was alone and unhappy.

Staring up at the ceiling, she allowed her tears to fall freely. She made no attempt to staunch the flow or to stifle the pathetic sounds she made. Instead, she let her negative thoughts rule the night, fueling her tears until she fell into an uneasy sleep two hours later.


End file.
